Island of Secrets

by Patricia Wilson

  Somebody came into the lobby and walked towards the lift.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m wearing the wrong glasses. Can you see a Lambrakis here?’ Stavro pointed to the call buttons.

  The stranger peered at the list. ‘No, I don’t see . . . wait, it’s number nine, shall I call?’

  Stavro nodded, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  The stranger, a fat effeminate man with pursed lips and a flabby face, eyed him. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  Stavro realised he’d been propositioned. ‘No thanks,’ he said.

  He stared at the small speaker next to the button. Would he hear Yeorgo’s voice? Would he even recognise it after so long? Nobody answered. He pressed again, holding his breath. The lift arrived for the stranger and a pensioner exited and walked towards the doors.

  ‘Yeorgo?’ Stavro said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m looking for Yeorgo Lambrakis,’ Stavro said.

  ‘You’ll find him at the kafenion around the corner,’ the old man replied flatly.

  *

  Amiras, Crete.

  FROM DEEP INSIDE THE olive grove, Angie watched Poppy run along the village street.

  ‘Please, Angelika!’ her mother cried. She stopped and sat on a plastic crate at the side of the road, hugging herself, rocking, distraught. A woman emerged from one of the houses and spoke to Poppy. Moments later she fetched her a glass of water. Sunlight flashed off the tumbler like a silent explosion. Another woman joined them.

  Although her insides were cold and fluttery, Angie’s sweats had dried and fresh perspiration prickled her forehead. She sat on her haunches, her hands on her knees, watching Poppy on the road below. How could she possibly make sense of such shocking information? In those few seconds, with the delivery of Matthia’s words, her life had come adrift. She wasn’t the person she thought she was. In fact, she didn’t know who she was at all.

  What had really changed? Poppy still loved her, she didn’t doubt that. And despite this catastrophic news, she still loved her mother. But biologically, she didn’t know where she stood, didn’t know about inherited problems. Perhaps there were none. She could find information on the web, quickly, before the wedding.

  Angie knew she had to tell Nick as soon as possible. They could research this morning, together. They had time. How would he take the news? Incest, God, how awful. How could Poppy have hoped to cover this up?

  She felt sick again. Anguish rising. She imagined a baby with a genetic heart deformity, growing in her womb right at that moment. Lost in the horror of her own speculation, she considered her choices. Broken hearted, she knew she wasn’t prepared to take chances with her child’s health.

  This was all Poppy’s fault! Her distress built until all she wanted to do was yell at her mother. Angie gasped, suddenly startled by a bright yellow and blue butterfly, fluttering about in front of her face. The insect landed on the back of her hand, opened and closed its scalloped wings. She stared at it, her troubled mind emptied by the magical incident. When the butterfly flew between the trees and disappeared, Angie got to her feet, calmer, but not wanting the locals to gawp at her.

  ‘Mam!’ she shouted down to the road.

  Poppy wailed and the two women helped pull her up. She hurried into the olive grove and threw her arms around Angie. ‘I’m so sorry that I didn’t explain. I didn’t want to tell you, ever . . . I’m so ashamed.’ She broke into fresh tears. ‘Don’t hate me, Angelika. Please, not after everything . . . not after I’ve lost everyone I love, except for you.’

  ‘I don’t hate you, Mam – I couldn’t, Angie whispered, her throat hard and painful. ‘I was upset . . . I’m still upset. It’s an enormous shock, to be told such a thing. I can’t get my head around it. God . . . Mam . . . Let’s sit on the ground.’

  ‘No.’ Poppy stepped away, dried her face on her sleeve and then placed trembling hands on Angie’s shoulders. ‘I must explain, now. Please don’t hate me . . . don’t hate me.’

  ‘Mam, I told you, I was distressed. I’m still in shock, but hate you, never, you’re my mother.’ Angie started to sit.

  ‘No, wait, it’s difficult to say . . . but I have to tell you . . .’ Her eyes left Angie’s face and she glanced frantically around the grove and then peered at the cobalt sky, chewing her lip. She seemed to search for the right words. ‘God help me to speak the truth, Angelika, I never wanted you to know because, because . . .’ She let go of Angie’s shoulders and collapsed to the ground, choking back sobs.

  Angie dropped beside her, afraid for her mother and her weak heart. ‘Mam, come on . . . Please, Mam . . .’

  ‘I’m not your Mam! You’re not my daughter! Do you understand? You’re not from my womb – I wish you were, and I’ve loved you as if you are. God knows, Angelika, I’ve loved you with everything I have, all your life, but you’re not my child. My babies died, both of them. I wouldn’t have let you go through that for anything.’

  Angie couldn’t speak. It was as if her world had been ripped from under her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Angelika. Truly.’

  ‘What? No . . . wait. That can’t be right, Mam. Don’t say such things. Of course you’re my mother!’

  ‘You’re not my baby.’

  Angie stared at Poppy, confused. ‘But . . . what do you mean? Who am I then?’

  ‘You are your father’s daughter. The man I’ve loved all my life. The man who’s like a knife in my breast. The man I miss with every single breath, who held me in his arms a lifetime ago and said goodbye. Yeorgo is your father: Yeorgo. There’s no genetic risk when you have children.’

  Angie swallowed hard. This was all too much. If Yeorgo was her father, who was her mother?

  ‘I may not be your baby, Mam, but you are my mother and you’ll always be my mother. Don’t take that away from me. But I need to know everything. No more secrets. Please. Will you tell me the truth?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Help me up, love.’

  ‘Come on then.’ Together, they stepped out of the shady olive grove and into the sunlight. A string of media vehicles drove past them, into the village. ‘It’s your daughter’s wedding day, Mam,’ Angie whispered and a smile squeezed through her tears. She hugged Poppy. ‘I’m sorry for what I said. I couldn’t hate you, never in a thousand years. You’re my mother.’

  *

  Back at the house, after making some tea, they sat in silence on the sofa.

  ‘First, let me hold you, Angelika,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ve always been terrified of you finding out.’ Poppy held Angie tightly, ending with a fierce squeeze before she let go and took a long breath. ‘Today’s taught me what I must have put my own mother through. I have to make my peace with her.’ She sat quietly for a moment, wringing her hands. ‘I don’t know where to start. To remember so much pain . . .’ Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. Angie, heart-breakingly sorry for her, brushed them away.

  ‘Try the beginning, at a happy time. How about before you married?’

  They sipped their tea, listening to the tick of the old clock.

  After a few minutes, Poppy spoke. ‘We grew up together, Stavro, Matthia and myself, the youngest. I was baptised Calliope, after my grandmother, but everyone shortened my name to Poppy. After the war, when our soldiers came home, many children were born in the village and the younger ones all played in the field, regardless of age differences. Stavro said I’d had another brother, Petro, but he’d died when he was only a few weeks old, long before I was born.’

  ‘Yiayá told me about the terrible massacre and what happened after.’

  ‘Stavro was always a grown-up to me, but Matthia and I were close, he looked after me while my parents were teaching or working the fields with Stavro. We grew all our own food. We were often hungry and had no shoes, but I remember having a happy childhood.’

  ‘Yiayá said those times were hard, even after Papoú returned from the war,’ Angie said.
r />   ‘Difficult, yes, but the village was like one family because of what we’d survived.’

  The reminiscent smile fell from Poppy’s lips and she dropped her head into her hands, sobbing quietly. Matthia stumbled through the doorway, clutching his chest, his face pallid.

  ‘I’m sorry, Poppy, I had to tell her.’

  Poppy raised her eyes. ‘You did right. I’m the one that’s sorry. But it’s okay, you see I . . .’ She turned away, biting on her lip. Reluctant to speak, her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’m not Angelika’s real mother.’

  Matthia’s eyes widened. ‘What? Why didn’t you tell me, Poppy?’

  ‘I was ashamed. Angelika is Yeorgo’s daughter. You put Yeorgo on a pedestal so I didn’t want you to know the facts. I’ve missed you so much. We were close, Matthia.’ She turned to Angie. ‘Nobody knew, Angelika, I realise you don’t understand, but Yeorgo and me, we had no idea we were siblings and when we found out the truth, you can’t imagine what it did to us. We weren’t bad people.’

  ‘Mam, I’m not trying to blame anybody, I just want to know – who am I? Tell me about your wedding day, take it from there.’

  ‘My wedding isn’t important, what’s significant is what happened after.’

  Chapter 40

  Crete, 1965.

  FOUR MONTHS AFTER OUR WEDDING, I missed my period. I couldn’t wait to tell Yeorgo. Everyone had anticipated the news and whenever I met Mama, she would squint at me sideways, looking for signs.

  The evening I told Yeorgo, I had cooked a special rabbit stifatho and put a single red rose in a glass on the table. When Yeorgo saw it he grinned, suspecting. I thought he had better eat before he heard my announcement, having an idea how things would proceed after. We chomped away at the stew, his eyes meeting mine, waiting for me to speak.

  ‘Get on with your food, Yeorgo,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Are you teasing me, little one?’

  For all my careful cooking, I ate without tasting a mouthful. Before long, Yeorgo banged his fork down next to his empty plate.

  ‘I’ve something important to tell you,’ I stammered, my cheeks burning.

  Yeorgo cocked his head to the side. His brown eyes questioned mine and a grin spread across his face. He reached over and took my hands.

  ‘Yeorgo, I think I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Poppy!’ he whooped with joy and leapt up, catching the corner of the table with his thigh. It tipped; plates and glasses skidded and crashed onto the floor. In an instant, his arms were around me, twirling me in the small room that seemed to explode with our happiness.

  ‘Put me down!’ I squealed.

  Yeorgo placed his hands on my belly. ‘I hope it’s a boy, but if we have a girl, she’ll be as beautiful as her mother and I’ll be even happier,’ he said. He lifted the lid off the bench seat, letting the cushions fall on the broken crockery scattered across the floor. My husband snatched his hunting rifle, raced through the doorway, and fired into the evening sky. What a racket!

  Children, playing in the street, clapped their hands over their ears. Dogs barked, and neighbours came rushing out of their houses. Everyone knew the reason for the volley. Men slapped him on the back and shook his hand.

  ‘Bravo, Yeorgo!’ they shouted as if I had nothing to do with it. I stood in the doorway, blushing and laughing.

  Constantina helped me to clean up the mess before she accompanied me up the village steps to tell Mama. I hardly felt the ground beneath my feet. Mama had guessed from the noise. We found her smiling, under the olive tree with her arms outstretched.

  Yeorgo left for the kafenion to celebrate, and two men brought him home at midnight, so inebriated he couldn’t walk. They took his boots off and got him onto the bed. He muttered, laughed, and then snored so loudly that sleep was impossible.

  ‘I’ve such a headache, Poppy,’ he said the next morning, bleary-eyed and clumsy.

  ‘Serves you right, getting that drunk. I hope that’s not the example you’ll be setting our child,’ I scolded.

  Yeorgo peered at my belly, grinned, winced and hugged the top of his head.

  ‘You got up in the night and pissed into the wardrobe,’ I said. ‘Disgusting. You’ve ruined my beautiful wedding shoes.’

  ‘Virgin Mary, I didn’t . . . I’m sorry, Poppy.’

  ‘That was bad enough, but to take all your clothes off and then dash outside to vomit over the geraniums . . . It’s a good job nobody saw you, what a ghastly sight.’

  ‘Don’t tell my mother . . .’ Yeorgo said.

  ‘I will – unless you clean up the sick yourself.’

  He raised his bloodshot eyes and stared at me in horror. ‘I can’t do that. I’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘Your bad luck, your choice.’ I had to turn my back so he wouldn’t see me smile. I made as much noise as possible that morning, clattering dishes and pans, chopping herbs, pounding a pork chop with the tenderiser, taking mischievous pleasure when I saw him wince.

  Yeorgo cleaned the patio, diving indoors whenever someone walked down the street, desperate to avoid the shame of being caught with a mop in his hand. Papa arrived at noon and dragged him back to the kafenion. He laughed, shaking his head when he understood the size of my husband’s hangover.

  I prayed for a baby boy and for nine months I was ecstatic. My labour pains started in the middle of the night. The first cramping woke me and I lay in the dark, smiling to myself. By the time the sun came up, the contractions were intense and I wondered how much stronger they would become.

  Yeorgo realised his child was on the way.

  Although a little afraid, myself, I laughed at Yeorgo’s panic. He raced through the village to get the midwife, swearing I would drop the baby at any moment.

  Twenty-four hours after that first contraction, Elias appeared. He was so beautiful with his thick black hair, tiny feet, and fists that gripped my fingers. I gazed at him in wonder. His wide brown eyes blinked at nothing in a big new world and his cherub mouth puckered on an imaginary teat. Someone ran to the kafenion to tell Yeorgo while Constantina washed my face and cleaned my body.

  ‘Thank you, Yiayá,’ I said, exhausted but delighted to give my mother-in-law her first grandchild. Everyone agreed Elias was an unusually handsome baby boy. I held him to me, happy beyond words. My life had become perfect, married to a man I had always loved, and now giving him a son. Nobody could know my joy; it was so intense. As I rocked him, I imagined all the things that would stem from this day.

  Elias would go to school, and then university, even if I had to scrub floors to get him there. He would grow into the most handsome and intelligent of men, like his father. Later, he would marry and produce the most gorgeous grandchildren, and in our old age, he would support me and Yeorgo, and surround us with security and harmony. I saw all this as I lay there with my beautiful infant.

  The midwife wanted Doctor Petrinakis to look at Elias right away. When Papas Christos arrived and baptised him, I sensed something was wrong. My friends, who had stayed with me through the labour, seemed to disappear into the shadows. Everybody spoke in whispers. Yeorgo returned from the kafenion and sat on the edge of my bed. The room emptied.

  He took my hand and hardly looked at his child. ‘Poppy, they want me to tell you . . . something is wrong with the baby. His heart is not beating properly. He won’t survive the day.’

  ‘No, they’re mistaken, Yeorgo! Elias will be fine, look, our baby’s perfect.’ I refused to believe it. It couldn’t be true. I had the idea that my love alone would strengthen our little boy.

  Yeorgo reached out to caress his child, but stopped before his fingers touched Elias. ‘You have to accept he’s going to die, Poppy,’ he said gently. ‘There’s nothing we can do except hold him for the short time he has with us.’ His hand fell back to his lap and he hung his head. Fat tears rolled down his handsome face. I’d never seen Yeorgo cry before, and it broke my heart into pieces.

  All my joy turne
d sour. Lost to the unfairness of it all, I held the little mite to my breast. I didn’t know exactly when Elias breathed his last breath. His life faded away and, at some point, he was no longer with me.

  I refused to part with his tiny body. Yeorgo stayed with me, silent, just staring at his boots.

  Maria came into the room and peered into Elias’s face. She laid a hand on his cheek and after a moment said, ‘He’s gone, Poppy. You have to give him to the doctor now.’

  ‘No, not yet, Mama. I don’t want to let him go. He needs me to hold him. Permit me to keep him a few moments longer . . . please?’ I cradled his small body. ‘Don’t let them take him, Yeorgo.’

  I refused to believe his short time on earth had ended. Elias had such a peaceful expression.

  ‘Perhaps he’s just sleeping, too tired from the terrific journey.’ I kissed his cherub lips and blew a little air into his mouth, calling on God and his angels to give Elias the breath of life.

  I hummed cradle songs that I’d learned especially for him, and I rocked him gently as the weight of grief slid slowly into my heart.

  The doctor and the midwife left. The women sat with me until dawn, and then they carried my baby away.

  I felt such shame and apologised to everyone. They said the baby’s death wasn’t my fault, but who else was to blame? Elias’s funeral took place the next day.

  Doctor Petrinakis tried to console me. ‘Poppy, Elias had a heart deformity. Nothing would have saved him. You did everything right, don’t hold yourself responsible.’ But the only person that I could blame was myself.

  *

  Before a year had passed, I found myself pregnant again but, this time, I saw suspicion in everyone’s eyes. Nobody looked at my expanding belly, afraid they would put the evil eye on my baby. I had mixed feelings when Yeorgo received his national service papers.

  The kafenion had the only village phone and, after two months away, Yeorgo called to say he had leave. I waited at the war memorial on the ridge, peering up the road for the city bus. I longed to see him dressed as a soldier. Stavro had taken a chair to the bus stop for me, and Constantina lent an umbrella for a little shade.